sorry i hurt you, they say love is a virtue
by sarasidles
Summary: In all the rebuilding post-war, no one's really bothered to check on Effie.


It's only been a few months since the rebellion and somehow he ends up with Effie Trinket as a houseguest. She'd gone back to the Capitol at first, back to join the rest of the brightly coloured cattle, and while he knows the others still talk to her sometimes, he'd assumed that would be the last he'd ever see of her. He envies that optimism now.

"Trinket." He says flatly, when he opens the door and is greeted by a shocking burst of pink and green against the gloom of the Seam sky. "What an unwelcome surprise."

Effie laughs brightly like it's some kind of private joke they're sharing and he's too taken aback by that to really grasp the spiel she's giving until the word "staying" is used.

"It'll only be for the shortest amount of time," Effie trills as she bustles past him, hauling a suitcase behind her, "You won't even know I'm here!"

Haymitch sincerely doubts that and opens his mouth to tell her so but, in the space of time that it took for him to turn around, she's already unpacked a set of tea mugs and fixed a planner to his kitchen wall and is staring expectantly his way. Her smile is a little shaky though and there's a haunted look in her expression that certainly wasn't there before. Mostly, he can't be bothered with the sad, reproachful eyes that Peeta will send his way if he ever finds out.

"Fine." He grits out and then promptly turns on his heel and slams the door on her delighted squeak. He spends most of the day idly watching the geese and bitterly regretting not grabbing a bottle before he left. Katniss wanders down at some point, her swollen stomach now becoming noticeable against the fabric of the shirt, and tosses him a small flask. He salutes her in return. They're supposed to be helping him get clean but she'd proclaimed him too much work in withdrawal and he'd never agreed to the plan anyway, so.

"I hear Effie's visiting." Katniss says, in what she probably thinks is a fantastic attempt at subtlety.

"If you mean visiting, as in currently destroying my home, then yes, Effie is _visiting_." He replies with a snarl and slaps a hand at one bird that sidles too close.

"Did she say why?"

"No." He answers, shortly, and he doesn't want to know either. That would involve actual talking to Effie and thus prolonging her stay, which he's still not sure how she earned anyway.

"Where's she going to sleep?" Katniss asks and he's about to tell her to mind her own fucking business when the weight of her question hit him and he lets out a low groan.

"Fuck."

Of course he had a guest room, all the victors houses did, and at some point he seems to remember even having two. Unfortunately, nearly every room in his house is swimming in a clutter of empty bottles and crumpled clothes and other rubbish that he'd never gotten around to filing or whatever it was people did when they gave a damn about life. Simply put, there's no where that Effie's going to deem suitable to stay and that would be fine, fantastic actually because then she'd have to leave, but something in the way she'd been unstacking her own plates when he left indicated that she wasn't going to give up so easily. Indeed, it was too much to hope that she might have seen herself out and by the time he yanks his front door open again, she's sitting primly at his kitchen counter, nose wrinkled in distaste.

"Haymitch, " She reprimands as soon as he steps in, "this is _disgusting_. I cannot possibly achieve the correct amount of beauty sleep in this – this pigsty! Why, I'd ask how you manage but clearly," she flicks her eyes up and down his body and he shifts uneasily, "you don't."

"Go somewhere else then." He suggests rudely and her face falls.

"Oh, I _would_," and it's good to know that he's not the only one displeased about this arrangement, "but I can't intrude on Katniss and Peeta, not now, and well. Haymitch, there's nowhere else. People don't like me out there –"

"People don't like you in here."

She carries on as though he hasn't spoken – "I mean, I know that this wig is simply darling but all they see is the Games. I can't blame them of course, but it does leave me with little option." She stares at him imploringly and something akin to resignation settles in his chest.

The only room relatively untouched in the whole place is his own, as he tended to spend most nights sprawled on the couch or across the dining table and he never liked sleeping in there anyway. Being one of the earlier ones built, it was too showy, too Capitol, and the last thing he wants when he wakes up in the middle of the night is to mistake his surroundings for the train leading to the arena.

"You can stay in my room." He says and her eyes widen. "Not – not like what you're thinking," He hastens to add. "There's no where else to put you. I'll take the couch."

Effie looks doubtfully past him and at the couch in question. "Are you sure? You'll ruin your posture on that monstrosity. Not that you had much of good stance to begin with but everyone can start somewhere."

"I'd prefer me having a sore back to you never shutting up about yours." He says.

"Well, thank you very much." Effie says after a moment, like he's being chivalrous rather than just not wanting to deal with her shit.

"Fine." He says again, waves a hand in the direction of his room and heads back to the geese.

* * *

It's dark when he gets back and the dull throb behind his temples rejoices as he swipes a bottle from behind the coffee table. The house is blissfully quiet, the door to his room is firmly shut, and he thinks, well that's that then.

It's not, of course, because he's barely halfway through the bottle of whiskey when a high scream shatters the silence and he curses as he splashes alcohol down his front in alarm. It's been less than a day and she's already ruining his life.

The screaming coming from his room continues and he's pretty sure he knows the cause. Haymitch is definitely no stranger to nightmares – anyone who makes it out of the arena alive pays dearly for their survival and never more so than when they try to shut their eyes. The drinking helps some to alleviate them but he's still woken up with his share of twisted sheets and heavy breathing. He can see it in the kids too, he had heard Katniss's screams on the victory tour, and it makes him furious because did the Capitol have to take everything?

It would now appear that Effie's joined the ranks of the sleepless, though he's got no idea what trauma she could possibly be reliving. Effie was held hostage, sure, and she'd looked a little worse for wear when they'd got her out but he hardly thinks a few harsh words – surely all they'd do to a Capitol golden girl – merits this kind of hysterics. He tries to open the door but it won't budge and he gives a groan of frustration. He would just leave her to it, after all the woman can't scream forever, but it'd get on his nerves and besides, he figures does owe her some.

He rattles the doorknob again except it would appear that she's gone and fucking locked it – typical, it's not even her house but she's clearly made herself at home. Or not, as Effie lets out another shriek, this time followed by panicked whimpers, too soft for him to have heard before from the couch.

"Fucking hell, Trinket," He shouts back, matching her volume as he rams a shoulder into the door and gets only the creak of wood in return, "Either shut up or open the door!"

There's a beat of silence, a muffled gasp, and then Effie's calling through the door, voice wavering, "I-I'm sorry, I'm fine, please carry on with what you were doing!"

He stares at the door somewhat dumbstruck because she was screaming bloody murder a few seconds ago and now she's fine?

"Effie –" He tries again, but he trails off, both out of the awkwardness her first name invokes late at night and realising that he has absolutely no idea what to say to her. Effie apparently doesn't either, because he gets no reply and eventually he heads back over to the couch. She doesn't scream again for the rest of the night and from experience he knows that means she didn't fall asleep again either.

* * *

He can't say it's a pattern as such because its three nights since the first scream and five between the next but pretty soon he's being woken by Effie's cries at least once a week. He's developed a nice case of insomnia to go with it ("God, you look terrible," Katniss gapes at him and it takes a warning glance from Peeta to quell the comeback on his lips) and that's damn unfair because he would have at least liked to pay her back with some night terrors of his own.

After the first time, he just lets her scream herself out. He does feel somewhat guilty about it, more than once he's paused outside of her door, and makes an effort to not snap at her too soon the next day. There's never a hair out of place the following mornings and powder hides what could've been bags under her eyes (he doesn't even want to know what time she wakes up to pile on the whole ensemble) but she's quieter on those days too. Still, they never once talk about it and the whole falsity of the act they're playing reminds him the show Flickerman used to have: if you just smile enough and ignore the reality, the problem is sure to go away! Once, she drinks from the scotch bottle he'd offered her (as a joke, not really thinking she would) and she squeezes her eyes tight as it burns down her throat. She doesn't shudder or gag or do anything of the overly dramatic things he thought she would and he doesn't know why but Effie Trinket, silent with purple lips bright against the gold bottle, might be one of the saddest sights he's ever seen.

"It would make sleeping a lot easier for the both of us if you didn't lock the door anymore." He tells her eventually, as they stand in the kitchen after one of the worst nights to date. She screamed herself nearly hoarse and in the end he'd kicked the door down, if only to shut her up. He left immediately after roughly shaking the mass of blankets awake and luckily it turned out that he'd only knocked the rusty lock lose rather than doing any real damage to the frame. Now in the morning light, Effie's mouth drops open slightly, probably in shock that he'd dare break their unspoken vow, but Haymitch has not got time for playing nice anymore.

She passes him a mug of coffee to stall and he sips once before raising an eyebrow expectantly. It probably looks horribly domestic to an outsider but the truth is, once you've spent several months a year sharing quarters with someone, as they did during the Games, it's hard not to fall back into routine.

"Why do you lock the door?" He asks, figuring that she owes him something in return after camping out at his place for over a month now. (Short visit, his ass). "Didn't you hear, we saved the world from your kind. No monsters outside to fear anymore." He frowns down at the mug. She's put him on decaf. Yes, the monsters are definitely no longer outside; they are now inside his house and fucking with his hangover drink.

When he looks back at her, Effie sighs and fiddles with a green lock of hair slipping into her eyes. "I didn't want you to see me without, well, all this." She tugs lightly on the wig strands and underneath the make up there's a faint pink tinge to her cheeks.

"That is the stupidest thing I have ever heard you say, Trinket," He says, finally, "And I've got a very long list to work from."

She gulps, tears suddenly shimmering in her eyes and he blinks in alarm. "I know you don't like me, Haymitch, but once upon a time _I _liked me. I liked my job and I liked my clothes and oh, I adored the Capitol. I was really someone there."

"Is this supposed to be making me like you, Effie, because it's really fucking not."

"I know, I know," She sobs, tears starting to stream down her face thick and fast, "I don't like me anymore, how can I when I led all those poor children to their death? The Capitol certainly doesn't like me anymore, they made that quite clear, and all I have left is these clothes! All I have left is how I look and even that makes people hate me but at least its familiar, at least I know how to do that!" She sniffs, wiping a hand roughly across her eyes and smearing eyeliner down her cheeks, "I don't know how to be anymore, Haymitch." She keeps saying his name, clinging to the word like it's a lifeline and he partly blames that for the response he gives.

"Well boo-fucking-hoo, Effie. Kids died in the arena and you're sad because you're not the most popular girl in school anymore? Get the fuck over yourself. You aren't anyone's sob story."

She recoils as if he's slapped her but even so she's nodding and something unpleasant settles in his gut. Effie Trinket has been many things to him over the years but she's never been blindly agreeable – if anything, he struggles to think of an issue on which they haven't been opposed and this about face is down right disconcerting to see. Haymitch is never going to win any awards for his beside manner but you learn how to read people in the arena and it's becoming painfully apparent that something is not right with Effie. The only reason he hadn't seen it sooner is, frankly, because he didn't care to look and that makes him feel guiltier than he'd like to admit. She's on their side, however much it might seem the opposite sometimes, and making a competition out of who has suffered the most feels far too much like what they fought to end.

"Shit," He breathes, scrubbing a hand across his face, "Effie, what's going on?"

"Nothing!" She hiccups, ducking her head, and he growls in impatience because he's not cut out for dealing with this, he certainly never signed up for it but he can't just leave her to drown in her own tears and so he reaches out to roughly grab her arm, force into facing whatever the fuck this weeks melodrama is, and Effie _screams_. It's the same scream he hears at night and her eyes are wild and she's wrenching away from him, cowering, and oh god no.

Because the thing is, Haymitch knows that look too. That's the look of someone fearing for their life and he abruptly drops her arm, nearly tripping over his attempts to put distance between them. She's not screaming anymore but she's shaking, her hands fluttering around her face and torso.

"Effie," He says, very quietly, hands held up in caution, "Effie, sweetheart, I'm not going to hurt you."

He's been stupid, they've all been so fucking stupid, because of course they didn't just threaten Effie. This was Katniss Everdeen's escort, who, for all her lectures on the proper manners and presentation, practically broadcasted every emotion she felt across her face. He remembers Katniss' words to him after the interviews, "tell her we send our love", and he thinks of who else could've heard, who could've thought to use Effie as leverage. It makes him wish he'd bothered to pass the message on, so at least this could have all been for something.

Over the years, he's watched helpless as tribute after tribute die on the screen in front of him, Maysilee reborn in each one, and for all he blames the Capitol, Snow, Effie herself, there's blood on his hands that he'll never wash clean. A bitter alcoholic is no one's first choice for a white knight and he hardly wants the role regardless, but maybe this is the one person that he can still try to save.

"Effie," He repeats, still using the same steady tone that generally works whenever the geese try to peck his hands to ribbons, "It's okay. Breathe."

She does, deep shuddering gulps of air, and he waits until her hands stop shaking enough to settle by her side before he steps towards her again. He takes careful, deliberate steps, like a tribute stalking their prey except this feels rather like the opposite, until he's standing right in front of her. He only meant to try and talk to her again but she leans forward into his chest and his arms encircle her if only as a way to keep them both upright.

"What did they do to you?" He asks. Already she's shaking her head but it's important that she does talk about this because otherwise she's just going to become him and that's not a fate he'd wish on anyone.

"They tortured me." Effie says, finally, her hands fisted tightly in his shirt. "I can't say – I don't –" She breaks off again and his blood runs cold when she concludes in one quick breath: "The Games were a _very _effective study manual for them. They thought I knew what was being planned. They weren't happy when I said I didn't."

"We couldn't tell you." He explains, "It was too risky. There was too much else at stake." He pauses and adds, "I'm sorry." He wasn't at the time but he sure is now.

"I know." She says, her voice so small and soft he almost misses it "I don't blame you. But that – that's why I had to come here. I couldn't stand it anymore. The same people who did t-terrible things to me were once smiling at me in the street and no one even said anything. It didn't feel safe, nothing did. At least here, I know where I stand. People don't lie about hating me."

She nods into his chest and he realises she means him.

"I don't hate you." He says and she scoffs, possibly the most undignified noise he's ever heard her make. "I _don't_. I didn't like you at first and I'm not sure why I do now but you don't piss me off nearly as much as you used to."

"Thank you." Effie whispers, resting her cheek on his shoulder, and its goddamn travesty that she's willing to take his words as a compliment.

He wishes he could say something better as she starts to cry but there's too much negative history still piled up between them and so he awkwardly rubs her back instead, hand bypassing the mess of product spray and dye that she calls hair.

"It's okay. Breathe, Effie, breathe," The same words become a mantra over and over and they stand there for god knows how long until Effie finally stiffens, suddenly realising the position they're in.

"Oh," She gasps, practically jumping back, "how inappropriate of us."

"Yes," He drawls, "How scandalous. We hugged, inside my own home, which you have been illegally squatting in for what has been a misleading amount of time. How will your reputation ever recover?"

Effie sighs, "Sadly, Haymitch, my reputation is in such disarray that I don't think even you could drag it down further."

He laughs in relief. He's not stupid enough to think that one simple hug has done anything much to help her but at least she's not paying penance to his verbal assaults anymore.

"You're a mess, Trinket," He says and he's not just talking about her make up, all pinks and reds smudged with tears and the fabric of his shirt. Even so, she gasps again, hands flying to her cheeks.

"Oh no," She near wails, "I must look so dreadful! How could you, Haymitch?"

"Excellent, everything is my fault again," He mutters but steps aside as she makes a beeline for the bathroom mirror, her face comically horror-struck. As she passes by, he reaches out to squeeze her hand.

"Stay as long as you want, sweetheart."

Effie beams at him, the make up crisis momentarily forgotten. "Well, how could I possibly leave when you haven't even bothered to fill in your side of the daily planner? Honestly, that's just poor life skills, Haymitch, I don't know how you remember to get anything done."

She doesn't bother to reply to his return shout of "you can stay with the fucking _geese_, Trinket," and that night the door to his room is left open.


End file.
